


Sunday (Or the First Day Of the Rest of Their Lives)

by pollitt



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Community: summerflinging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-08
Updated: 2006-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday at the park</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday (Or the First Day Of the Rest of Their Lives)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the final chapter header for _Good Omens_. Thank you to S for her suggestions. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Originally published for the summerflinging challenge.

In the end, it wasn’t.  
The end, that is.

The players had taken the field, had been ready for a row, and then it hadn’t happened.  
The end. The Final Battle. The End Times. The Apocalypse. Michael Stipe feeling like Leonard Bernstein.

In the end, there was no ending, and those that had come down (or up, depending on the team) for a fight had packed up their belongings and gone home. Which was well and fine for Crowley—although he imagines there could be serious reprimanding, or at the very least, some stern looks, if he were ever to truly vocalize such an opinion—who, if he were asked (although he hadn’t been) would say that six millennia is really only the beginning of the good times.

The summer sun has warmed the grass beneath Crowley’s feet and he slithers down into that warmth, not unlike, some passersby think to themselves, a snake curling up in the grass. Their next thought, falling so seamlessly after their first like dominoes, is to settle onto the benches with one another, their bodies clicking together like magnets—their jobs and daily obligations forgotten, the seeds of a grand affair sprouting in the midday sun.

“That wasn’t very nice, my dear,” Aziraphale says, suddenly at Crowley’s side.

Standing there, with the sun at his back, Aziraphale appears luminous and Crowley remembers for one brief moment what it was like to be back in the Light. He is profoundly glad that he is wearing his sunglasses, as his eyes feel suspiciously bright, and in the next blink of an eye Aziraphale has settled down beside him and the moment has passed.

“Yes, it was, rather. His job has been marching him closer and closer to the grave, and her boss only keeps her around for her looks. And as for the other thing, angel, you know as well as I that’s how it should be. They’ve been working toward that for years, they were just too scared to make that leap. So I pushed.”

He doesn’t have to look over at the angel to know what his face looks like—gaping like a fish is the most common phrase used these days, although Crowley always did have a special affection for pole axed, such a descriptive term.

“I would have never taken you for a romantic,” Aziraphale says, when he’s found his voice again.

“Don’t go tainting my evil deeds with such words,” Crowley answers, a smile forming at his lips, his hiss stretching the final ess. Jabbing a finger into Aziraphale’s chest he adds. “And don’t even _think_ of starting up on that ‘there’s some good in you’ nonsense again.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say a word, but there is a self-satisfied _hmmm_ that escapes, and Crowley feels torn between wanting to push the angel back against the grass and –

Perhaps the couple on the bench weren’t the only ones working toward such things.

Snatching his hand back, Crowley feels a coldness travel through his body in the form of a violent shake. 

But why? Wouldn’t such a temptation—the temptation of an angel—be the bright peacock feather in his cap? The solid gold star in his book of bad deeds. And therein lies the rub—he doesn’t want it to be a bad deed, and it is his own temptation as well.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry. I—“ He finds himself at a loss for words and, judging by Aziraphale’s face, probably looking more than a little pole axed. After a minute of concerned observation, the angel smiles—either having made a decision, or perhaps some divine revelation.

Aziraphale’s kiss is as warm as the sun, and Crowley’s body turns toward the warmth, seeking touch. He spares a thought to those passing by—a group of spectators find themselves suddenly in desperate need of the facilities—before he wraps an arm around the angel’s neck and lets himself be pressed down into the sun-warmed grass by an equally warm body.

In the end, neither can say how this came to be, whether it was temptation, salvation, setting things right and as they should be—

Or, perhaps, it was Ineffable.

And in the end, it is just the beginning.


End file.
